Wrought in blood
by Captain Arthur
Summary: An Epic based around medival times with a twist. Be ready for extreme use of swearwords, bloody fight scenes and the occasional flirting, and be on the lookout for Yaoi. Feel free to comment!THe first few chapters might be a little slow. PrussiaxEnglandxDenmark with a completely innapropriate FrUKUS rape. That's Chapter Nine... SPOILERS.
1. Chapter 1

**~I own naught; all characters of Hetalia belong to Hetalia. However, this IS my idea. So if I catch any of you little leeches (not implying that any of you ARE leeches, I am simply addressing those who would be leeches) try to snag the idea, I shall be addressing you… shortly. Now, onto our adventure, where we greet our hero (or maybe he is a villain?) on a lonely path in the dark Scandinavian wood~**

He rode fast, without pause. The cloak billowed behind him like a dragon's large wings, face hidden within the depths of the dark green hood. The black stallion he rode was no common horse, either. To all pretenses, it was a beautiful black horse. To those who have magic, however, this horse was a unicorn. The long spiral horn was a beautiful sight to see as the two galloped past. But that is beside the point, for although they looked quite impressive, there was no one around to see such a dazzling sight. The cloaked figure had far to go, and this part of his journey was meant to be quick, but he had had some… _problems_… at the last tavern.

Such problems were little to him right now. The daggers and cruel scythes strapped to his chest and hips were not toys, as the insolent troublemakers had soon found out. These weapons were nothing compared to his bow of birch, carried around him in the way of an archer who has no other way to carry his tool of destruction. The quiver of arrows bounced against his back slightly, itself and the bow being the only two weapons visible to any passerby in the dense forest. Again, not as if there were any but the rabbits, foxes, squirrels and occasional deer.

Slowly, the unicorn came to a canter, and then to a trot and finally to a halt entirely. This did not seem to be against its rider's wishes; on the whole, it was almost as if a telepathic communication had crossed between the two entities as the green-clad rider turned his head towards the sound of water nearby. The large creature he rode turned this way as well, mirroring him, and began walking towards the sound near silently. The source of the playful sounds was a small brook that had cut a foot-wide path into the ground.

With a soft thud, rider dismounted steed and both stooped low to drink; the equine figure deciding to kneel in the springy grass nearby, the humanoid figure lying on his stomach to scoop water up to his parched lips. He then filled a gourd hanging from his heavy belt, and sat, leaning against a large tree of ask nearby. The hood stayed up, yet the cloak parted. This lonely rider was clothed in a rough blue tunic and leather breeches; one thick leather belt around his waist, the large Egyptian scythes that had so hindered the tavern brawlers visible now, the other long piece of leather going diagonally across his body, and it was riddled with daggers that looked like they were from all over Europe. There was a long, curved implement (from Russia), a curved blade of Egyptian make, a throwing knife from southern Africa, a very Scandinavian looking hatchet that hung from his belt, a small, to the point knife of Japanese make, and a final dagger that had the usual elaborate embellishments the Spaniards made their swords with. On the subject of his weapons, all the arrows were fletched with spotted feathers, and the bow had tied to it three feathers, one of raven black, one of snowy white and a blue spotted one, smaller than the previous two. Back on our previous subject of dress, however, this archer's wrists were covered in braces of leather, as were his feet clad in leather boots. The sparkle of elusive gold glinted around his neck, but was then gone- replaced by the obvious linking silver clasps and chain that held the cloak around him so. On the center of this silver embellishment was a jewel of emerald green, although it appeared to change colour randomly.

This short figure would not sit still long however. He kneeled beside his steed and rested his forehead against its, missing the long spiraling horn. A whispered word, and then he stood back, watching the stallion get to its feet. It nudged him as it passed, heading back the way they had come. He watched it until it disappeared. Subconsciously, he removed a previously unnoted item from his belt- a black and short-ish piece of wood. He fiddled with it, and it gave out sparks- gold in colour- before he put it away. Glancing about, he curled up at the base of the tree to await the night, falling into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.:':.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"_Shut up! We're not there yet! Do you want to wake him up before we get there?" First, an angry voice, and then a low murmur that had a heavy French accent. "No… I do not want mon lapin to wake just yet. He is so peaceful…" The bicker ceased, and the voices faded into darkness once again as unconsciousness consumed his battered mind once more._


	2. The Bane of Living

**~The disclaimer, in case you missed it, was on the top of the previous chapter. So don't get your breeches in a bunch. And with this lovely reminder I don't think anyone bothered reading (it IS just me prattling on) we rejoin our short stranger on his yet unknown quest in the Scandinavian woods~**

"Geddup! Geddup!" The rough voice sounded familiar somehow. The words were spoken quickly, he realized, and were therefore unrecognizable. His eyes flashed open, the flash of green under the hood visible to the blue-eyed newcomer. Both gazed at each other, each realizing who the other was.

"B-b-bri…" The newcomer stuttered, but was shushed by the shorter blonde, who we now may recognize as Britain, or England, or simply Arthur. This newcomer, however, was very different from him. Tall, blue-eyed, also blonde, the Dane was clad in numerous furs and the large axe attached to his back rivaled the broadsword at his side innumerably.

"Hello there Mathias- Viking life still treating you well?" Britain's voice was a little stony, even as he stood abruptly. He didn't wait for a reply. "So, what is so important you need to wake me up?" Mathias stood, open-mouthed, gaping at the Englishman.

They were statues; Britain looking a little annoyed, Denmark looking like he had just seen the pale blonde on cactus juice. Finally, the power of speech returned to the taller figure.

"You're alive. Actually…" Denmark bit his lip. "Alive." And before Britain could move, he was enveloped in a warm bear hug, the Dane, usually the unsentimental one, clutching him to his chest. The hood fell from Britain's face, and the strong hands that held him to Denmark found the soft ears on his head.

"Art…" Denmark scowled at Britain shushed him again- his name was not to be said out loud. "Artie then- what are these?" He rubbed the soft fox ears in between his fingers as he took a step back. He smirked suddenly. "Do you have a tail too?"

Britain stood there, looking pissed off now as the Dane ran his hands all over Britain's backside, squeezing his butt slightly. The smack the Viking received reverberated through the forest.

"What did you want Denmark!" England's eyes flashed as the jewel on the silver clasps turned an angry red. He raised his hood again, hiding the orange ears that he had in place of the ones usually on the side of his head. But his question was soon answered. There was a pounding of hooves, and Denmark was brought back to himself, muttering something about how 'the German' was going to be happy about 'the turn of events'. He looked at Britain, who was beside him, kissed the pale cheek under the hood and scarpered. The English archer was quick to take to the trees, where he crouched- watching and waiting for the source of the hooves to come near.

And then an unfamiliar figure rode into sight. The steed was of dark magic, no doubt, as its eyes gleamed red. The figure itself was cloaked much as the silent watcher now was. This hooded figure glanced about as two; more familiar figures joined it on rowan stallions. The tall rider on the right sighed, and said something. It might have been English… but if that was English, Britain reasoned, he should feel insulted. This speaker's accent was a disgrace to his language. The dark center figure snarled something under his breath. However, the left-most brunette answered in plain English, even if the accent did make England want to sigh."Is it really necessary for us to hunt down the beer-bastard?" Another growled reply, another indistinguishable comment from the tall blonde and then a laugh from the brunette. "The tea-bastard is dead, remember? The Isle brothers told us so. Taken out by the American brat. No more magic for the tea-bastard." The dark one, obviously the leader, snarled and rode off, the other two following him.

Britain leapt from tree to tree with superior agility. The knives pressed against his stomach and chest as he ran from tree to tree, a green flash against the sky. The birds received him near their nests as they would another bird, squirrels chattering advice at him as they went. The cursed and blessed ears… His burden to bear. Just as were the scars on his pale back, the cuts on his feet, the bandages all up his arms and palms, and the love… the love he did not deserve.

~-…:::…-~

_"He keeps moaning Alfred… we should untie him." There was silence. Then-_

_"No."_

_"He is not peaceful anymore monsieur. In fact, Angleterre seems… haunted… He knows we have bound him…" The voice panicky, and if Britain had been more awake, he might have registered the need to see the desperation on the usually -in everyone's opinion but his- charming French face. However, consciousness was the last thing Arthur was thinking about right now. Truth be told, there was no cognitive thought at all… Just existing right now… that seemed good…_

_"Norway said he might have a bad side effect to the poison, but it will make him… more… how do I put this… Sexier. Spicier. He'll be his pirate self." There was bitterness in the American's voice- he had never seen England in the pirate days, having been just a chibi wandering in the wilderness at the time, but he had heard wonderful stories that set his skin on fire. "Just wait, he'll come 'round soon enough. Then we'll have some fun."_

_This hurt Britain. It pained him. It tore at his barely functioning mind. America… Alfred… plotting with… France… Francis… to… to…_

_Even as he was plunged back into the darkness, he welcomed it, for the pain was unbearable. It burned like the sun. Alfred… going to... r-_


	3. A Knife in the side

**~Do I even need to say it? Anyway, the chapters will get darker and darker, until I change the rating on the front… possibly around chapter 10. If I get that far… Alright. Well, back to our story then.~**

He had to convince himself he needed to keep running, needed to keep moving along the treetops. Britain didn't have to stop at this tavern… he didn't have to stop anywhere. Especially not at a loud, crowded tavern.

But the pull of people, of company, made him leap down from the trees like a predator of the night, and walk calmly through the dilapidated thatched village. He swept through the silent town, glancing at a young boy hiding in the shadows, shielding a small girl from the uncanny wind. England's eyes, unseen, rested on the pair a moment. And then he kept on walking, silent as the wind that made his cloak flap around his ankles so. He passed a young, dark haired man, who looked at the green stranger with something that may have been curiosity, if the eyes looked not so dead.

Just your usual, everyday bilge and scum ridden tavern. Oh yes, it certainly was. But he had to do what he had to do now he was here, and so, with one last glance at the figures behind him, he strode in.

To look like a normal visitor, he purchased weak ale and took a seat on one of the rough hewn stools that cornered the bar. Sitting quietly at a bar… how this brought back memories… He ducked a swinging fist a moment later.

Tavern brawls were so common; England was prepared for such a thing. He ducked the second drunken swing and then turned around, dodging a third. He took a sip of ale and scratched his chin, the two thugs having a row turning to face him at the movement, blinking curiously. "Having fun boys? Oh, don't let me ruin it. I'm just here on a friendly visit." England's smirk was visible.

The two trolls gazed at him raptly. This was the crazy person, said to have died, come back, and fought against the Shadow's rule. This was the latest news circling the globe. IT was also said, however, that the shadow feared this man, above all else… and… it was even talked about in whispers… that he might, this small, pale man, might actually be able to defeat the Shadow… and this very man, turned into the Shadow… that would be innumerable wealth…

England smiled, watching the conclusion reached; the inevitable answer. "Now boys, don't go doing stupid things. You know I won't just take a little off the top. Heads will roll, the Guardians of the Middle World will be called, and then I'll have to blow the tavern sky high. And you will die. I promise." His voice was bright, his tone airy. He could have been discussing the last rainfall and crops.

One of them backed off, and the rightmost one charged. With a cry like a bull, he ran at the slim, almost feminine figure on the barstool. England tutted, and leapt out of his seat, into the air like a green raptor. His prey looked up, and met his end in one simple jab; the knife of Japanese make severing his jugular vein as England jumped off the falling corpse's shoulders, onto the floor. It was over so quickly, none of the people in the tavern were quite sure it had actually happened, but it obviously had as the large, beefy thug hit the floor with a crash. Britain did not retrieve his knife, but instead walked calmly out of the tavern. He stopped at the door and glanced back at the assembly. "By the way, the knife carries a curse- just thought you all should know." He laughed cheerily and exited. The large assembly looked at the corpse, and then back at the doorway as the dark-haired, blank-eyed man from outside walked in.

~.::.~

"_Is Angleterre alive Alfred? He looks so pale." That Frog… was worried about him… GREAT._

"_Shut up Francis. He'll be fine…" But Alfred's voice sounded harried, unhappy. Unsure. England couldn't resist smiling to himself, even in this muddled and confusion period of waking up. He was causing his captors strife? Brilliant. Sounds perfect._

_A warm finger prodded his cheek, not succeeding in waking him from this drowsy existence anymore than previously. He heard a slap and the hand was knocked away, two very calloused fingers feeling for his pulse._

"_He's alive." America was relieved. That git. If England could have said anything, he would have accused his little brother mercilessly. Probably something about raising him, the jibes they all made at his food, and now this? He was really going to hurt his dear old brother like that? Going to abuse him like this? And America thought of him… in a sexual way? How weird was that? Or was it weird? No… it was definitely weird. Although it did explain the looks he had been getting lately when his eyebrows were rubbed by Denmark (which was an amazing feeling, [usually coupled with a lot of moaning and mewling as he tried to struggle against the stronger Dane. It was, after all, not a slightly thing to do in the middle of world meetings] and he supposed the Italy twins felt the same when their curls got tugged on) .… or got in a lip lock with Prussia. The drinking buddies had all become much closer than friends, and required no one's approval. He had heard Germany yelling at Prussia recently, something about "expecting you, Denmark and Britain to announce your engagement any day now". A unit…_

He was drifting away again…

_Inseparable…_

He should fight the potion he had been slipped, evade the startling dreams of blank reality…

_Denmark…_

Time to wake up! Fight off these scalawags! Serve them justice!

_Prussia…_

When would the potion wear off. . . ?

_Mathias… Gilbert…_

_Save me._


	4. Reminiscing and Spells

**~Okay, it became a little darker than it had been intended at this point. Sorry for those who were expecting some fluff. You may get it… or not. Anyway, I'll let you know when a chapter should be rated 'M' shall I? Good- this one isn't. Just a 'T'. Oh, and if you'd like to ask me question, or maybe just bother the Jaffa cakes outta me, you can message me. You like this? SAY SO! Lol. Now that's out of the way…~**

Britain had strolled out of the town, walked through the forest nearby and then aimlessly wandered through the countryside. His chest felt a little lighter. Checking that no one was around, he also lowered his hood, gently feeling for the fox ears Denmark had seen- finding that they had turned into wolf's ears. This appeared to be normal for him, as he sighed and flipped the hood back on completely. And kept walking. Walked so far that he left the Scandinavian woods behind and found himself in the Germanic woods… getting closer to where he needed to be.

_Britain did not regain consciousness. Alfred had heard him mumbling a little, and he yelped sometimes… the Norwegian had done something to Britain, he knew it. Little Scandinavian scum._

_But the Frenchman was right… it DID sound like Britain knew that he had been tied up… _

_Was Britain really magical… could he sense stuff like that? Did America's older brother really know what they had done? Maybe even guessed what they were going to do? He moved a little closer to the bound country as Britain stirred a little._

_The short blonde was muttering… something about… uniting… and a Shadow. Cursing him, America… wait? What? Was Britain… _dreaming_ about him? Or maybe it was a nightmare… as Arthur pulled against his bonds, America couldn't help but think so. A shiver of guilt ran through him, and he turned away._

England nimbly leapt over large roots, clambered over rocks and then tried not to trip on smaller roots. Night was coming on… soon… He would have to stop when it grew dark- he was not a nocturnal country after all. This thought made a sad smile appear on his pale face, as he imagined Romania popping out of the bushes to say hello. But this was impossible, and he banished all happy thoughts and kept walking.

Despite the effort to keep his mind clear, random thoughts assaulted him. _This would be easier if you hadn't been killed in the first place._ Yeah right. It would still be hard. _C'mon. Just blame North America already. _I can't. It isn't his fault I had to send him forward in time. He wasn't of this time period.

Shaking his head again, Arthur stopped arguing with himself.

_In_ _light of what Alfred was planning to put Britain through, he still felt extremely worried. It had only been a couple hours since they had slipped the older country, but America was feeling something like panic. Did Britain not react to potions well? Had they poisoned him really badly?_

_ He couldn't shake off the feeling something had gone wrong._

England slowed down his walking pace and located a large tree, climbing it quickly. He was about ready to curl up and sleep. But he pulled out a necklace, hidden in his tunic. It was a simple gold chain- not chunky, not overly large- and it held a bottle. The bottle must have been holding something… as it glimmered and sparkled…

Hiding the small bottle away again, he took the Russian and Egyptian knives off the leather. He balanced them on the branch in front of him and took out his wand. There was never enough time.

"**I poate fi singur,**

**atât de departe de casă.**

**Nu a fost un român, care ma învăţat acest lucru,**

**el a plătit preţul-**

** Eu vă cer acest lucru:**

**Fly acasă, găsi prieteni,**

**zbura acasă."**

It was a spell, and it appeared to work when the knives vanished. Britain hoped it had.

He leaned back, against the tree, and then scowled at himself, taking the bow and quiver off of his back. He rested the enchanted bow on his lap, sighing to himself. Denmark's face when he had seen Britain with this very bow… he smiled slightly again and fell asleep.


	5. A halfremembered Memory

**~The following is an excerpt from Britain's past. Sure, you can skip over it, or you can be a cool person and read it. It might even give up some hints. HINT HINT. Lol~**

He could see the proud ships from here, steered by an innovative rudder, propelled by oarsmen. The draconic carvings were crude imitations of the real beasts, and did not inspire the same cryptic fear. Three boats. Too many Vikings.

Britain was hidden behind a cloak, face in shadow and all weapons hid, much like at the present. The absence of the present's knives made his chest light, however. The youthful face hidden by the hood had not yet seen years of raising smaller nations, not yet fully encountered war. The great general Rome had not touched the pale blonde, nor his siblings beside him. He motioned to them, and they scattered into the trees, leaving only him on the outcrop. As the Vikings' boats hit the beach, he caught a tall blonde figure's eye. The tall blonde man glanced around at his main comrades (a small blonde, timid looking; a tall one who comforted the small one in a rather unbrotherly fashion-more lover type actions; a strange, short, sandy-haired one accompanied by a troll; and a pale-haired, purple-eyed misfit)and looked back up at the outcrop on which Britain stood. But the green-clad country was gone.

Britain notched an arrow, high in a tree. He heard a string go taught in the same way to his left and knew his slightly younger brother was there. He saw a small trickle of smoke go out as his oldest brother snuffed out his pipe. England caught a whiff of sherry, beer and the stale scent of potatoes. The twins were positioning themselves around the trees. The Isle siblings were all here. United for the first time in ages- and about to try and save him, Britain, one of the youngest of them all. There were others on their side, but only a tribe or two. This was a matter of pride. Of freedom.

And if all failed, England knew what he must do. What he had to do. It was essential.

A roar shook the forest as the Vikings trampled through the trees. And Britain let loose the arrow, notching and releasing another almost as quickly.

From Denmark's point of view, things were not exactly going well. Norway's troll had been overcome already, having been attacked by a large man wearing a skirt. Most of the men from the second boat had been taken out by an archer, hidden in the trees. Or maybe two. Both were wearing cloaks and the smaller one's hood had fallen, showing him only a boy. Sandy hair, sea-green eyes. The other remained hooded, loosing arrows like a demon. This archer's eyes were a brilliant mossy green- he had caught a look at them as the bowsmith had leapt to another tree. Two twins fought like whirlwinds, the female a deadly blur with a double-headed axe, the male sporting a broadsword that seemed to glow. Their grass-green eyes were stone cold as they fought Iceland, Finland, and Sweden all at once. The lady was fending off the Swede with amazing skill.

And then Denmark caught a glimpse of Finland, who was knocked out by the twin brother. The strawberry blonde turned his attention purely to Iceland, efforts renewed. But, at the same time, the oldest looking brother wearing a skirt went flying and fell to the floor, also unconscious. A trickle of blood wound its way out of his burnished red hair and down his face, the pine-green eyes fluttering closed. As he shared a glance with Norway, he sighed. He did not want to kill these brave warriors, but he raised the horn to his lips to signal help from the third boatful of Vikings.

Sweden gained the upper hand and subdued the sister, kicking the brother in the cheek as he fell prey to a punch on the nose from Iceland. He buckled. With a dull thump, and another, the archers jumped to the floor, out of arrows and help.

The sandy-haired brother watched the Scandinavians fearfully, a small animal caught in a trap. Norway was the only one not drenched in blood. The Anglicans were covered in Scandinavian blood, the Scandinavians in Anglican blood. "A truce is in order I think?" Denmark laughed.

Unruffled, the main archer, still hooded, sat cross-legged. "Release my siblings. They will sit beside me, your kin by you. And we will speak." Denmark nodded affirmation, half wondering how they could understand each other, half not caring.

And so they sat. Denmark took the middle, opposite the mossy-eyed archer. The sandy-haired boy sat to his brother's left, and they had dragged the eldest over on his left. The eldest was still unconscious, but their movement of him seemed necessary to them. On the archer's left sat the twins. To Denmark's right was Sweden, cradling the revived Finland. To Denmark's left, Norway and Iceland. There was an awkward silence, the truce lying heavily upon the battlefield.

"I suppose an introduction is in order." The archer removed his hood, exposing the pale, heart-shaped face and mossy green eyes, the messy straw-colored hair and numerous eyebrows. And Denmark swallowed suddenly, trying to breathe. "I am Britain, also known as Britannia. Previously under the Roman Empire's rule. To my left is Wales, also previously under Rome's rule. Beside him is Scotland, who is quite happy to be under no man's rule but his own, now or ever." There was a mirth to the short man's voice that made Denmark want to laugh, but he did not, as that might agitate the shorter man, and Denmark's instincts said not to agitate the beautiful creature. The creature he must have for his own. And if Britannia sensed the hunger in his opponent's gaze, he gave no sign. "To my right are Southern Ireland, the lovely female you see there, and Northern Ireland, beside her." Northern Ireland did not look pleased and had neglected to wipe the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Southern Ireland, likewise, scowled at her enemies.

Denmark began introductions, and Britannia nodded at each Scandinavian country in turn. When he finished, there was silence again. He wanted to hear Britain's accent again, and therefore asked, "Why do you not revive Scotland as we have Finland?" A smile flickered on Britannia's lips. " He would relight his pipe and try to rip apart Norway and his troll. I wish not for our conversation to be polluted by the foul smoke, nor Scotland to be ripped apart by a Norwegian troll." He chuckled, and Denmark stopped breathing again. Once he had re-caught his breath, he asked a final question. "Whose shore did we land on?" He really hoped that it had been and was Britannia's- hoped with all his heart.

"Mine." Britain answered readily, and Denmark caught the hungry look in Britain's eye that he knew was in his own. He shivered and smiled pleasurably. "We will leave your siblings be if you come with us. But no part of you will be spared." He and the Scandinavians stood.

"I know." Britannia bit his lip, showing a slight hesitation, nothing more. He took a knife from his pocket, and slit his palm carefully, turning so his back was to his enemies. He pressed the bloodied palm against Wales' forehead, leaving a blood rune. He did the same for all his siblings, all of whom looked downcast and despondent. Southern Ireland kissed her youngest brother's forehead and whispered something. As Britain left the blood rune on Scotland's forehead, he walked over to a large tree and drove the knife into the ground at its roots, muttering. As he stepped back, a wave of energy encompassed the clearing, and was then gone.

Norway looked mutinous. Denmark could read his face. A magic user, and apparently at a higher level of magic than Norway. His half-brother was pissed.

Denmark blinked, the blood runes gone from the siblings' foreheads. As one movement, Both Irelands were on their feet, and Wales was supporting Scotland with surprising strength. They looked longingly at Britannia, who was paler than ever, and walked back the way they had come. Britain now stood before his conquerors, pale and beaten. "I made it so you can't go get them. You can't get them without killing me first now. I trust you, but I have to make sure they're safe. I'm ready to go." He smiled up at Denmark, and then collapsed into the tall Dane's arms. Denmark's heart felt as though it might burst from pity and proximity for his charge as he lifted him off the ground, turning toward the ships on the beach.


	6. Clues and Commentary

**~And who is the masked/hooded/unknown rider? You should know by the end of this chapter. Oh, and if you haven't already guessed, the main pairing in this is the Drunk Friends Trio (PrUKmark). And there is some implied SpUK, NorDen, SuFin, and an obvious FrUKUS to come in chapter nine. Oh, mother of anchovies, was that a spoiler?~**

Britain sat up; the cool dawn colors not yet ready to grace the world. HE then stood, sighing to himself. It had been a lovely memory, wrapped in a dream form. But now to come back to the real world… or… if this wasn't the real world, this world. This ever so important world. How many knives did he have left?

The Scandinavian hatchet pushed against his ribcage. The African throwing knife remained near his shoulder. The small Spanish blade gleamed in soft morning light. Three blades. Several countries to get to. It couldn't be that hard, right? Holding his wand in the palm of his hand, it pointed north after a moment. He turned the opposite direction and leapt down from his tree. Britain made several very imprecise flourishes with his wand, twirling about and then stopping. A glowing pentagram burned itself onto the grass, exposing dirt. He made a slashing motion at his uncovered palm and let the red liquid drip to the center of the stowed away the wand and ran.

He was lightning fast, quicker than the eye can see. Almost faster than light can move.

But not quite.

With the quiet stealth of a ninja he moved through the trees, around bushes, jumped saplings. HE had until the cut on his hand healed to run, and keep running. Just keep running. HE could barely see where he was going; he was going there so fast. Too fast. Way too fast. But this was necessary. Once he left the German borders, he had to go through France. And his pursuer would surely know where he was headed now. So speed was essential. All of a sudden, humanoid shapes loomed out of the woods. Britain thought absurdly of Robin Hood and his Merry Men before dodging the assailants. He glanced behind, and was surprised to spot many familiar faces.

Two in particular stood out. A blonde and an albino gazed at him raptly. He hesitated and ran on. No time to figure out why there were there… he was still in Germanic territory of course. Prussia had reason to be there…

After a long time of running, he felt the magic fade, and felt slightly panicked. This was not a good place to stop. Not now, so close to his target although, Spain was still hundreds of kilometers away. So he pushed himself to keep running, even though he was barely getting anywhere now. HE had to get past France's borders, had to. If the bloody Frenchman found him inside the borders by nightfall… Britain made a face to himself and upped the pace a little.

Stupid Frenchman.

That _frog._

Britain was nearly ready to collapse when he located a tree to stay in, just beyond the French border, in the Spaniard's territory. He curled up, but did not yet fall asleep. HE couldn't shake a horrible feeling… like being watched.

_.:'"':._

And not so far away, he was being watched. Well, ever so far away, but the watcher could see him from there. If that makes any sense. This watcher was the dark, hooded figure, and he stood beside the pentagram that had been etched into the grass. He was not bad. He was not good. He was not dark. He was light.

This watcher watched his quarry through a scrying bowl made specifically for that purpose. Watching. This watcher loathed the pale face, the calm that came over those features during sleep. He couldn't stand the drunken expression of too many pints, those stupid gleaming eyes that reminded him of a cat's. The slender build made him want to bite his lip, to scream with impatience; that untidy hair made him want to pull out his own.

And yet, he was trying to help the country he detested for stealing his loved one.

He just needed that stupid blonde to stop running from him, to stop doing whatever quest he had sent himself to do in this fantasy world. He hadn't seen anything like it before. He blamed the fact that Britain was a magic user.

And pushed away a long-forgotten memory of three young chibis.

Three young chibis, standing in a long-forgotten circle.

Three young chibis, standing in a long-forgotten circle, swearing that they would use their magic for good.

To aid others, the fanged Romanian had said.

To help the world and its many creatures, the short, cloaked Brit had said.

To show the world that magic isn't all that bad, the sandy-haired Norwegian had added.


	7. Simple number Seven

Waking up to a Spaniard standing over you with a sword is not usually advisable. Especially when you're at the receiving end of the weapon.

Hidden behind a very flamboyant mask much like the Ottoman Empire's plus shiny and red string, two olive-green eyes gazed reproachfully out at Britain. Spain had not recognized the invader in his territory. Not yet. "Diga su nombre y de negocios." The Spaniard asked quickly.

England stared at the weapon in his face, and shook his head slightly.

"State your name and business." Spain rolled his eyes. These Englishman.

England bit his lip. "It's funny. I once knew a Spaniard much like you…" He peered into the masked face, showing his own, but he could discern no subtleties. "Then again… all Spaniards belong to him… in a way…"

Spain blinked. Praise the lord, it was England. Finally back, after so very long, and a Death perhaps…? _A_ death… what a strange concept. He stowed his weapon away, weighing his options.

IF the Shade found him greeting the archer like an old friend, he would be sentenced to death. But he had pledged his allegiance to the slim rebel a long while ago, and intended to make good on that promise… How much time might he have before he was found out in any case?

Looking down upon England's hooded face, he made his choice. "Si. I should hope you are referring to me." He removed the mask from his face, smiling just a bit. "You should pick larger trees to sleep in señor de Inglaterra. You fell out of this one." He offered a hand to the blonde country, pulling Arthur to his feet. The Briton glanced around and then up.

"That does explain a lot…" He smiled slightly. His cheeks ached for a moment, the action long forgotten.

"Spain, it's time." He sobered up instantly, returning to the reason of his appearance. HE took the Spanish knife and handed it to Spain. Taking it, Antonio sighed.

"The Shade's looking for you… he doesn't say it, but he is señor. He searches Europe now, seeing as you escaped him in Asia. Assuming you escaped him in Asia." Spain inspected the knife. "It seems so long ago I gave this to you at your asking. I see that you only have one pledge left to redeem. How did you get to Russia? The border is -how do you say it?- armed to the teeth. The scarf-man won't let the snow in…"

"You remember I visited Romania? Before…" Britain didn't continue. He couldn't.

Spain grimaced. "I remember."

"He gave me a spell… to… get the knives back to their owners." The easiest way to explain the complex magic. "But I had to come here personally."

Spain blinked. "You need help?"

"Yes. Yes I do." England bit his lip. "I need to get home, Spain. Home before I face him." He sounded slightly pleading. "I have to get home. But I had to give this to you. I was nearby... and you are the only one left besides those close to me. And I need your help before the last time. He'll catch me if I go alone… I've left a trail he can follow too easily. Please Antonio." Green eyes searched green, pale face upturned towards the darker, tan one.

The journey had taken it's toll on England, Spain could tell. The luminous eyes were darker, duller. The face was drawn and pale, hair longer than usual. England was wearing leather gloves, but these were fingerless, and from the tips of the fingers that Spain could see, his fingers looked calloused from weilding the sabres at his belt.

He nodded once. He would help.

.:.

An hour later, after some running through the forest, into a town and acquiring a wooden cart filled with hay and a horse, Antonio and Arthur set off, the Spaniard on horseback; the Englsihman under the hay.

.:.

They jouneyed through France without a problem until the very last moment. That moment was when the Shade and his magnificent horse leapt into their path.


	8. Potions and Poisons Revealed

**~As the last medieval piece, enjoy it for its amazingness. ~**

"Let me pass." Spain's voice trembled. "I have nothing you need. Go."

After dismounting, the Shade advanced on the cart.

"There's nothing-" Spain's protest was interrupted by England's appearance.

The Anglican brushed hay off his shoulders and lowered his hood, stepping off the cart, onto the ground with a gentle thump. Two tiger ears were on his head, both back in annoyance. HE had not completed his quest, and here the Shadow was, messing with him now.

Likewise, Norway removed his hood as well. His face was similarly lined, and he sported two large fins on the sides of his head. They did look a sight. "I don't want to fight you Arthur."

As he said England's name, magic rippled outward from him, went through England and bounced back to himself. He was pleased the magic would have worked, had anyone said England's name. But his monotonous face was indiscernible.

"You don't want to fight me? What the bloody hell do you mean _you don't want to fight me_?" England's eyes narrowed, right hand hovering over a saber, other pointing at Norway accusingly. "Don't give me that tosh! You followed me all over the bloody continent. Tried to kill me numerous times and then killed Romania because he stood in your way! Because he aided me! And you don't want to fight me?"

"I'm sorry my friend, but you are incorrect." They circled each other like wolves, England's ears back, Norway unruffled. "I have done nothing of which you said."

"Don't lie! I was there! I saw it all!" The shorter blonde laughed mirthlessly. "You've killed and murdered and elicited help from the cretins of this world! You're a monster."

"England, would you listen? I have done nothing of your accusations." As England made to interrupt, Norway held up a finger. "Let me explain."

"After everything you've done? You want to explain?" If he was being unreasonable, he didn't care. "You deserve to die for breaking our pact!" Now he was being stupid, but he really didn't care. Unsheathing the sabers, he ran at the Norwegian, not allowing the other time to react.

Norway dodged to the side, blinking, surprised. England had altered himself… He jumped over the left-saber, jumping off it over the right one. Arthur had made himself stronger and faster in this world in his subconscious. He drew his own broadsword, fending off every attack with waning energy. This avatar of Britain was better at dual-wielding than Britain ever was in real life. Saying so, Norway was pleased Britain hadn't remembered his wand yet. Then the Norwegian's avatar would be screwed.

Matrix- move dodge. Twirling away and slashing at England. He couldn't keep this up… and The Anglican was reaching for his wand. No. NO. NO! This was not going as planned- but it had never gone as planned… had it?

England muttered a spell, and the Norwegian was thrown backwards. HE landed on his feet, just barely. There was something oddly impressive about seeing the Englishman walk, straight-backed and proud, through the dust they had kicked up and place one foot on the conquered Scandinavian's chest, wand pointing at Norway's throat. He saw why Denmark liked England better than him, even if fellow Scandinavians were cuddlier than Brits and Germans.

Norway looked back into England's face, which he had been avoiding looking at (England's eyes were so accusing… you couldn't look at them and not feel your heart break sometimes.) and his eyes widened in surprise.

Arthur, the deadly archer he had tracked across a insubstantial continent; England, the deadly country that had secured more allies than America could hope for; Britain, the country that had just beat the shit out of him without touching him (for neither had landed a blow on the other), was crying.

"England… I'm sorry about this-" Norway started talking, unsure.

Britain shook his head, turning away as he wiped the tears away. "Let me talk first…"

"I can't bloody kill you, y'know that? After everything you've done, everyone you've killed… I can't take your worthless life. No matter what you're about to tell me, something tells me I'm going to regret running…" Arthur shook his head. "Talk fast or I might change my mind you wanker." HE swallowed, taking a breath.

Norway began talking. He told his rival about the poison, the potion he gave America. How he had known who it's intended target was. So he had meddled with it- he didn't think anything would come of America's aims. How it would have locked England's subconscious mind in nothingness.

How Britain's imaginative mind had fabricated its own world- one that was like the real one. But they were in medieval times. How the Anglican's mind had created people he knew and placed them where they were supposed to be, come up with a back story, a quest. And when Norway had delved in to help find England's location, taken a potion that connected his dreaming mind with England's, the Anglican had recognized an enemy.

Norway had become the Shadow, an archenemy with a history, and evile aims.

As Norway finished his explanation, England took his foot off of Norway's chest. He looked completely crestfallen. "I created this place to stay busy…" He looked around. "I'm insane, clearly."

"It doesn't matter right now, just tell me. Where are you Britain?" Norway sat up, standing quickly. "We have to find you. You're in grave danger."

"A basement. With America… and France…" Britain, instead, sat. A tremor shook the fabricated land. "It think it's America's basement… he seems much more at home…" He bit his lip. "Get there fast, okay?" The trees were falling apart, Spain had disappeared ages ago. Norway's avatar flickered. England's faded out, then back in. "You have to promise me."

"England! Don't wake yourself up! Stop waking up, you idiot!" Norway took England's hand and squeezed it. "You'll wake up, and be stuck with them!" For once in his life, Norway sounded panicked. "You won't remember anything that happened in the dream!" The ground was slowly falling away now. "ARTHUR YOU IDIOT, THEY MIGHT KILL YOU."

"But I can't spend my time here, knowing that it's fake Norway. I really will go insane, imagining stupid things, random thoughts, nothing like reality." England smiled. "It'll be fine. I'll be fine. Just don't leave me there with them, okay?" he wasn't sure himself, but he couldn't stay here.

So he was destroying it.

And waking up.


	9. Out of the Fairytale

**~This is the FrUKUS, as promised. Don't say I didn't warn you. This is rated M by the way…'cause... y'know… It's rape…~**

"He's waking up Alfred. Alfred! He's-"

"I know! I know!" America sounded just as excited as the frog.

The harsh voices assaulted Britain's ears like waves on the rocky shore. Why couldn't he go back to the other world? Where was the other world? He had to get back, get away… But he couldn't… remember…

"Wakey wakey mon lapin." France purred. "Wake up Angleterre."

England scowled as he opened his eyes, adjusting to the darkness. Immediately in front of him was the outline of the Frenchman. Just a little behind that, he could see the light reflecting off America's glasses, making the squares flash white and blind. Britain paled. So America _was_ here.

"America! What are you doing! Here! With France! Where is here? Release me this instant! This is not funny or fair or-mmph." Britain stopped himself from melting into France's abrupt kiss as instinct dictated. He fought the tongue searching his mouth with all his might and tried to focus on other things, but that wasn't helpful either. He was clearly tied to a chair, France (who was clearly itching to sheath himself in the protesting country below) was straddling him mercilessly, and America was taking off his shoes. Britain closed his eyes, deciding that focusing on anything but America was good; put all his energies into fighting Francis. After a moment, France pulled his lips from Arthur's. He opened his eyes to glare at the country in front of him.

France put a finger on Britain's lips. "Now now Angleterre. Don't look at me like that." France winked, despite the hurt look in his eyes. Britain was slightly relieved to have the Frenchman get off of him, but was not so happy to realize that America had gotten everything from the lower portion of his body off minus his boxers, and that the powerful country was going to straddle him next. Britain's resolve crumbled along the edges slightly.

"A-a-a-America." Britain stuttered slightly with fear, even as he felt Alfred's weight pin him to the chair as Francis unbound his wrists. "America, what's wrong? Why are you doing this to me?"

Alfred did not look into the green eyes. Not just yet. He unbuttoned the jacket, the shirt under, and pushed them down Britain's shoulders where France pulled them the rest of the way off. Instead of confronting the face filled with questions he would not answer, his eyes roamed instead over England's torso, running a hand down the pale expanse of skin. There were scars, but he supposed there were more on the Anglican's back. America gritted his teeth as England shuddered at his touch, and then blinked as England shuddered again. America looked up and saw France was tracing scars, murmuring in Britain's ear of past conquests, past wars and battles. America smiled slightly as Britain bit his lip and shivered again. Then he caught the scared, trapped look in England's eyes and his smile faded slightly as he leaned in and cupped Britain's cheek in his hand, pulling him into a kiss by the tie still around his slender neck.

Britain fought him as he had not fought Francis. Hands free, he tried to push America off of him, he bucked against America's weight, refused to give into this kiss… But it was wasted effort, and his futile efforts gave way to a slight ease in the moments of battle. His hands hung limp against his sides as America's tongue finished searching the wet cavern it was unwelcome in. America licked his lips and smiled.

"I never did like the taste of tea Arthur," a shiver from the shorter country below him as America said his name, "but frankly, I don't mind when the tea taste is you."

"Git." England spat as Francis's cold hands forced another shiver to run its way down his back. "And you, Francis, are a wanker. What's wrong with you two? Why can't you just leave me alone?" He allowed himself a quick look at America again, but couldn't take it to see the glasses lob sided from kissing _him_, Britain… He looked away. "_Traitors_."

"I trusted both of you wankers." Britain looked so downcast, staring at the grey basement floor.

France wasn't sure he could go through with this with Angleterre so… depressing. But the look on America's face told him that even if he wasn't going to help the stronger nation, America was going to fuck England, no matter what. Hey, if someone was going to fuck the protesting shit out of the slender country anyway; why not?

"Britain, before I move you, I'm going to promise that the door out of here is locked. So don't try anything stupid." America picked up the shorter country with ease- despite being super strong, America had been sure he would actually feel England's weight. But the shivering country was nothing in his arms. Francis followed them like a French shadow, smiling hungrily. England muttered the whole way as America walked under the bare light bulbs to a previously unnoticed bed in the corner.

"Unfathomable gits… never thought…" Britain mumbled to himself, desperately searching for a way out of this… any way out of this…

But as he was placed on the bed, and then pinned to it, he realized there was no way out. America was holding him to the bed and France was currently undressing. The American undid the tie still around England's neck and smiled, glasses flashing white once more. Britain hissed slightly as America kissed, then nipped his collarbones. England was going to fight until his body gave in.

Because he knew that when his body gave in, his mind would soon follow, no matter how painful it was at first.

America's hands disappeared from his wrists, the heavy country's weight from over England. France took his place, holding England's arms over his head with one hand, the other hand sliding down the pale chest below him, the surprisingly thin stomach and reaching its destination, slipping into his boxers. Arthur yelped as France's hand, warmer now than before, closed around his member. HE closed his eyes.

_Shut it out. Shut it out. Shut it out. Shut it out. Shut it-_

He stifled the small moan that rose to his lips, refusing to let it escape. He could feel the smirk on Francis' face… and quite clearly, his thumb, rubbing and pushing on the tip of England's member. Taunting him. So very… tantalizing… "Hon hon hon Angleterre. So needy, even in resistance." England let out a hiss of breath, and a word with it. "Wanker." France chuckled, squeezing Britain's shaft lightly before removing his hand, and with it, England's boxers. This hand joined the other in pinning Arthur's arms to the bed as France leaned down, hot breath near Britain's ear, pressing himself against the Englishman below… Arthur felt the bed lower some more as America joined them, even as he panted a little as his member was set free…

Francis moaned, pressing his hardened member against Arthur and pulling his head up, back arching. But… Britain hadn't done anything… With a sudden realization, England kept his eyes closed. Whatever America had done to get Francis to moan like that… He clearly did not want to see him doing it. A completely unbidden thought ran through his head next, no doubt as a result of the large member pressing against him. _Francis is rather large… _And America was large too, right? Neither was as big as Prussia, who boasted a huge five meters… or were as singularly thick as Denmark, he was sure… But-

This unbidden thought process was interrupted as England was flipped onto his front, shoulders pushed down by French hands, ass pulled into the air by American ones. Fingers teased his entrance as he kneeled on the bed.

It didn't matter whose fingers were in him anymore. IT did matter who these two were, and he knew they were not anyone he could hope them to be.

No getting out, no escape. If this was karma, he didn't know what action it was for. If this was his 'just reward' what in God's name did he do wrong?

Their voices were above him, but he was trying to ignore them, to curl up into a little armadillo ball and no longer be bothered. But he couldn't ignore them.

He couldn't ignore three fingers, prodding their way into him.

He couldn't ignore another hand, teasing his taught shaft.

He couldn't ignore the tongue lapping up the inside of his legs. He shivered and moaned quietly. The sound was unexpected, pushing past his lips irrationally.

England moaned loudly, as nails scraped that bundle of nerves inside of him. Maybe he had given in; he couldn't be sure, even now. Then, as he moaned again, he realized he hadn't given in. His resistance had simply been attacked with a sledgehammer and pulverized by a nuke. It hadn't just crumbled, it had been demolished.

Not as if he had any other choice.

_Just because you don't like it, doesn't mean it's not going to happen England!_

THIS WAS NOT A GOOD TIME TO REMEMBER THE FUCKING REVOLUTIONARY WAR.

His consciousness was trying to hide itself in memories… but he had to stay here… or he'd lose himself, he was sure… His eyes snapped open as the hand was pulled out of him, scraping his warm walls as it went, staying near his entrance to tease it wider. And suddenly, they were both leaning over him, pressing themselves against him, pushing him down. He could feel their breath against his neck and he forgot to breathe, screwing his eyes shut again.

"Don't be like that Mon Cher." Francis lazily traced a scar on England's back with his finger.

Arthur opened his eyes at America's voice. "Get over it England. You might as well enjoy yourself." He felt them exchange a look. "We will."

Hands kept him down as he struggled again. Even as America held him down, they were discussing something agitatedly. He caught a snatch of, "It'll validate his claims, Francis." Those bloody traitors. Fucking wankers… "… the Goddamn lube." England wished he could stop hearing… and seeing… and he was really going to wish he couldn't feel soon, he knew it…

Francis moved away, and came back. England heard a bottle being opened, liquid dripping against skin.

The fingers were back, coated liberally in lube. Francis was panting slightly, and America grunted, clearing his throat. The wet fingers stretched his entrance taught, painfully taught, and he shivered, clawing at the bed. No. No. No. NO. NO NO NO!

Francis slipped inside of him, then America. He screeched. There was no other word for the sound. Too big too big too big. And then they began moving. Pain, suffering, anguish! He still wasn't adjusted as they moved irregularly, getting into a rhythm. He could still hear, he didn't want to hear the slapping… it had the rhythm of a beating heart. One two, one two, one two. They were re-angling themselves slightly every time they came crashing down.

One two, one two, one two.

He cursed them in his head, even as he moaned.

One two, one two, one two.

Arthur screamed. Someone had slammed into his nerves. A breathing moment… and again… another scream ripped through his throat.

One two, one two, one two. Pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure…

Breathe, scream… breathe… scream… pain… pleasureful pain… pain… pleasureful pain…

Then a new sound as America and France abruptly pulled out of him. The slamming of a door and the cocking of a pistol. "Prussia! I found them!"

"Let him go you bastards."


	10. The End ?

England curled up into a ball, shaking. HE didn't know what he was shaking from, cold, nausea, or shock, but he shivered. The Dane's strong voice made him so relieved. And the knowledge that Prussia was here too… he was safe…

Denmark was pointing his pistol at America, who was the greater threat. Prussia ran down the steps, joining Denmark, but pointing his gun at France. "Against the wall." Denmark's voice was dripping with barely concealed rage.

Prussia didn't wait to see if the two obeyed, handing his gun to Denmark and going to England. "Arthur…" HE bit his lip. To ask if the shorter nation was okay would sound stupid. England clearly wasn't. But, as the blonde looked up, he threw his arms around the albino's neck, still shivering.

"G-Gilbert. " His voice was hoarse. England's hands locked together behind Prussia's neck, keeping them both there for a moment. Prussia kissed England's forehead, then gently pulled Britain's hands apart. "Do you mind if I carry you Britannien?" Arthur shook his head, wrapping himself in a discarded sheet and letting Prussia pick him up. He ached already, and buried his head into Prussia's chest. HE couldn't look at America and France, who had been thrown their boxers, which both had put on darkly.

Prussia gently stroked Britain's slick shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting way.

Denmark glanced back at his lovers, rage still written in his eyes. There was something scary about it, but it reassured Prussia like nothing else. He nodded once and the Dane nodded in return and faced the two countries facing the wall, dual-wielding hand guns.

"I should shoot you scum right now. I really, really should. But I'm not going to. Nope. I found some handcuffs when we were poking around upstairs, America. Left on the table, forgotten maybe? No matter. There was multiple pairs, so I can only assume what you were planning to do with them."

"Denmark, let's not leap to hasty descisions…" France began.

Denmark kept one gun trained on Francis as he walked forward, cuffing America's ankle to France's, America's other wrist to Francis's opposite one. HE cuffed America's wrists together, and France's previously uncuffed wrist to a pipe sticking out of the wall. "Be glad I didn't make you both into human pretzels." He turned away and then back around, walloping America on the back of the head, then doing the same to Francis in a smooth motion. They slumped, out cold.

"That felt really good." Denmark smiled darkly as he walked over to Prussia and England, gently running a hand through Arthur's hair. They blinked, chuckling in surprise as they headed out of America's house. "He's fast asleep…"

"He's been through a lot Denny… as thin as anything as vell…" Prussia sighed. "We can't leave zhem down zere Danmark. "

Denmark laughed. "I know. Someone should call the cops. How about the neighbors?" He shot a round into the air, and hurried over to the car they had rented. "One of England's houses is near here, right?" Prussia nodded, still cradling Arthur, who woke at the gunshot and then fell back asleep.

They got in the car, and drove to Britain's nearby houses, opening the door with a key under the mat. Prussia located Arthur's room and gently placed the tired country down, unwrapping him from the sheet and tucking him in. HE closed the door behind him as he rejoined Denmark in the living room.

..:':..

A few hours later, Arthur woke up. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying to assess where he was. Prussia and Denmark had saved him right? He was pretty sure… So where was he now? There were two warm bodies beside him, and two hands holding him close.

He opened his eyes and nearly sighed with relief. Denmark's peaceful face was next to his own, his breath warming Britain's neck and shoulder. England had never been so glad to see that crazy head of beautiful golden hair.

There was equally hot breath on the back of his neck and his back, and England knew one of the rough hands around his midriff was Prussia's.

He still ached. His mind was currently blocking out images of a country he had raised and another he had fought taking him unwillingly. Said mind was also as tired as fuck from maintaining a mental universe. Basically, Britain had a headache too.

But as warmth from the two countries beside him warmed his bones, he let it all melt away.

Float down the river.

For now.

Because, even as he closed his eyes to sleep once more, he glimpsed a flash of silver lying on the bedside table.

An African Throwing knife.

**~And so, good friends, our end is met... or is it?~**

**~If you would like me to write sommat for you, I do have limits, but i will be happy to... y'know... as long as it's inside my perameters. And sadly, I will not write romance ATLA fanfics. But otherwise... let me know. ANd don't forget to R&R.~**


End file.
